Pegasus  re-saddled 


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I/OLMONDELEY  P  EN  NELL 


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PEGASUS    RE-SADDLED. 


Made  to  be  Painted."    (/V*9-) 


Frontispiece  ■ 


PEGASUS  RE-SADDLED. 


r.\ 


H.  CHOLMONDELEY    PENNELL, 

U   i  HOF    "i     •'  PI  ik    OH    ii  ..  \m 


WITH   TEN  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  DU  MAURIER. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

I.    B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

i  8  7  8. 


DEDICATED 

TO 

T  1 1  O  M  ASH  E  N  R  Y    F  A  R  R  E  R,    E  S  < }., 

OF   ABINGER    HALL,    SURREY  . 

SECRETARY    TO    THE    BOARD    OF    TRADE. 

A    TRIBUTE   OF   ADMIRATION    TO    HIS    PERSONAL   Ql   V.LITIES 

WD    PI  BLIC   I  IAREER. 


759W2 


CD  XT  E  NTS, 


o 


,,  "TE 


Illustrated 

I  11  us  I  • 


M 


A  Pi ■  i  \  i 
I  1 1  i !  i    Bo-Peep. 
The  Si  crei  of  S  vi  1.1  v 
A  Casi    of  Spoons 
To   \n  Anonymous  Correspond! 
Pretty   Puss.     Illustrated 
i.i  \m  -  for  Wives  . 

Forty-Five 

Rinking  Reminisi  ences 

Echoi  s  i  rom   che  Sami 

A    LlTTLi    Beauty.     Illustrated 

A   I  !.  i    Yi  \ks'  Char  icter   . 

Painting  hie  Lily 

N  U'.ii  i  v    l  \\.  i  Shot  s 

"I'll  I-    SQl  I  K  l     AND    i  III     Ni  W    PARS'  iN*S    ( 

Some  One's  i  i  irgi  r-ME-NoTs  . 

R]  PL'S     ro  A    \  ai  ENTINE.      Illustrated 

\  i  V  irdi  \\  Knot  . 
Wanted,  an  Idea    . 
Ami  Am  iqi  \kian  . 
For  s  m  i  ,  Pensive  Selima 
A  Curl  in  a  Letter 
Oi  rsiDE.     Illustrated 
I  in    Bloated  Bigg  \u<»  in 

UNG    SONGS. 

Parfait  Amour 

Bitter  Vermuth  . 

••  ( >h.  if  Life  were  .1  Bumper" 


IKI 


pai;e 

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$4 
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4" 
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CONTENTS. 


Hunting  a  "  Slipper"    . 

The  Butterfly  Chained 

Quack !  Quack  ! !  Quack  !  ! ! 

A  Fine  Old  Buster.     Illustrated 

"  Drei  Bitte" 

An  Uninvited  Guest 

At  Brindisi     . 

"The  World's  Mine  Oyster' 

A  Brace  of  Valentines. 
To  a  Lady,  with  a  Ring 
With  a  Butterfly's  Wing      . 

"  Conter  Fleurette."     Illustrated 

With  the  Horse  "White  Mist" 

Musical  Undertones 

A  Daisy  Chain       .... 

On  Ghosts 

Postscript  to  Ghosts    . 

A  Reply  to  Birthday  Stanzas    . 

Lady  'Bell's  Catechism.     Illustrated 

Mayfair  on  Skates 

The  "Matrimonial  News"   . 

Pincher  

Next  Morning        .... 

Daisy's  Dn.n 

London's  ••  Suez  <  !anal" 

A  Pocket  Venus.     Illustrated 

The  Coming  R  vct 

Two  Letters  ..... 

Veni,  Vidi,  Via       .... 

A  Fable  with    \  Moral 

Twenty-one  to-morrow 

A  I  \i  am  si  Puzzle 


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FAITE    A    PEINDRE:' 

'ADE  to  be  painted" — a  Millais  might  give 

A  fortune  to  study  that  exquisite  face — 
The  face  is  a  fortune — a  Lawrence  might  live 
Anew  in  each  line  of  that  figure's  still  grace. 


The  pose  is  perfection,  a  model  each  limb, 
From  the  delicate  foot  to  the  classical  head  ; 

Hut  the  almond  blue  eyes  with  their  smiling  look  dim, 
And  lips  to  be  loved  want  a  trifle  more  reel. 


Statuesque?  no,  a  Psyche,  let's  say,  in  repose, — 
A  Psyche  whose  Cupid  beseeches  in  vain, — 

We  sigh  as  the  nightingale  sighs  to  the  rose, 

But  the  goddess  declines  to  give  sighs  back  again.  . 

If  the  wind  shook  the  rose? — then  a  shower  would  fall 
Of  sweet-scented  petals  to  gather  who  list, — 

If  a  sigh  shook  my  Psyche? — she'd  yawn,  that  is  all, 
She's  "  made  to  be  painted" — and  not  to  be  kist. 


LITTLE    BO-PEEP. 

ITTLE  Bo-peep  has  lost  her  sheep, 
And  someone  or  other's  lost  little  Bo-peep — 
Or  she'd  never  be  wandering  at  twelve  o'clock 
With  a  golden  crook,  and  a  velvet  frock, 
In  a  diamond  necklace,  in  such  a  rout, — 
In  diamond  buckles,  and  my  !  how  shocking, 
A  beautiful  leg  in  a  red  silk  stocking ! 
And  an  ankle  a  sculptor  might  rave  about. 
But  I  think  she's  a  little  witch,  you  know, 
With  her  broomstick-crook  and  her  high-heel'd  >hoe 
And  the  mischievous  fun  that  flashes  thro' 
The  wreaths  of  her  amber  hair — don't  you  ? 
No  wonder  the  flock  follows  little  Bo-peep, 
Such  a  shepherd  would  turn  all  the  world  tnto  sheep, 
To  trot  at  her  heels  and  look  up  in  the  face 
Of  their  pastor  for — goodness  knows  what,  not  for  grace  ?- 
Her  face  that  recalls  in  its  reds  and  its  blues, 
(Blue  eyes,  and  red  lips  full  of  pearls  if  you  choose) 
And  its  setting  of  gold,  "  Esmeralda"  by  Greuze.  .  .  . 
There's  "  Little  Bo-peep,"  dress,  diamonds,  and  all, 
As  I  met  her  last  night  at  the  Fancy  Ball. 

IO 


Little  Bo  Pb  i  p 


THE    SECRET    OF    SAFETY. 


I  >l'  ask  me  to  declare  the  spell 

By  which  I  sleep  unhaunted  slumb 

"  Still  fancy  free  ! — the  secret  tell  ?" 
The  secret  is,  tail-  Isabel, 

That  "Safety  lies  in  numbers." 


It  is  not  that  ni)-  heart  is  tough, 

I  dare  not  make  such  false  confession, 

Or  th.it  it's  made  of  such  soft  stuff 

It  is  not  durable  enough 

To  take  a  firm  impression  : 


Hut  Beauty's  like  the  bloom  that  flies, 

And  Love's  a  butterfly  that  hasteth, 
From  lip  to  lip  the  trifler  hies 
And  sweet  by  sweet  the  garden  tries, 
Hut  each  one  only  tasteth.  .  .  . 

If  I  looked  long  in  your  beaux-yeux 

I  might  not  sleep  unhaunted  slumbers, — 

At  least  'twere  rash  to  try,  you  know, — 

So  now  I'm  going  to  the  Row, 

Where  "safety  lies  in  numbers!" 


A    CASE    OF    SPOONS. 


{He) 

WONDER  why  to  sit  I  find  it  sweet, 
As  if  you  were  Gamaliel,  at  your  feet  ? 

They're  quite  too  small  to  be  of  any  use  ?- 
{She)     Because  you  are  a  goose. 

{He)     I  wonder,  when  your  glances  downward  stray, 
Why  mine  look  up  until  yours  turn  away — 
You  hate  the  sight  of  me,  I  dare  assert ! 
{She)     Because  I  hate  a  flirt. 

{He)     Then  tell  me  why,  when  you  attempt  to  speak, 
I  find  my  ear  gets  closer  to  your  cheek, 
Until  it  almost  touches  someone's  locks  ? 
{She)     Because  it  wants  a  box! 


M 


TO    AN    ANONYMOUS    CORRESPONDENT 

O  name — unknown  the  "  hand" — and  yet 
I  think  your  fingers  must  be  taper 
Who  wrote  "non  ti  scordar"  and  set 
Tin's  tiny  seal  on  pink-ting'd  paper? 

The  page  is  fair,  and  deftly  traced, 

Folded  across  and  neatly  dated; 
The  p's  and  q's  display  much  taste. 

The  h's  look  well  aspirated. 

The  i's  are — well,  like  sweet  sixteen's — 

When  laughter's  light  and  smiles  are  plenty  ; — 

My  taste's  like  David's  as  to  queens — 
I'm  sine  you  can't  be  more  than  twenty? 

You  still  are  in  the  bloom  of  youth 

With  faultless  face  and  figure  fair}-, 
They  call  you  "  Blanche"  or  "  Maud" — in  sooth 

The  odds  are  two  to  one  on  "  Mary  !" 

If  e'er  we  meet  in  after-life 
Speak,  dear,  I'll  answer  circumspectly ; 

And  tho'  you're  some  one  else's  wife, 

You  still  might  spell  my  name  correctly? 

IS 


PRETTY    PUSS. 

HE  slightest  of  pouts  on  the  softest  of  lips 
Of  a  little  red  mouth  with  its  smiles  in  eclipse- 
The  least  little  flash  under  eyelids  half  shut, 
The  least  little  beat  of  the  least  little  foot, 
Like  the  thrill  of  the  tigress  preparing  to  spring, — 
Seem  to  hint  that  my  Mabel  is  not  quite  the  thing  ?  .   .   . 

I  wish  I  was  back  in  the  hansom  for  choice ! — 

Shall  I  fight?  or,  like  Niobe,  lift  up  my  voice? 

Own  my  conduct  was  vile  (but  I've  done  that  before), 

Pray  forgiveness  and  never  offend  any  more  ? 

Or  brazen  it  out  ? — "  Yes,  I  trifled  with  Jane, 

"  And  I  flirted  with  Fan — and  I  mean  to  again  !" 

Tableau  ! — But  I'll  keep  on  this  side  of  the  table, 

There's  certainly  something  that's  cat-like  in  Mabel, — 

If  stroked  the  right  way  you  get  plenty  of  purr, 

But  claws,  I've  a  fancy,  lie  hid  in  the  fur, 

And  she  looks  at  this  moment  as  prompt  to  assail 

As  the  Celt  who  begged  someone  to  tread  on  his  tail.  .  . 


It's  perplexing — I  wish  I  was  back  in  the  cab  .  . 

There's  something  infernally  cat-like  in  Mab. 
16 


,  <jiasi/ — «■ 


I'KI    II  \      I 'I  SS." 


'7 


LEASES    FOR    WIVES; 

OR,  WHAT    WE'RE    COMING    TO. 

PARTNERSHIP  for  life— absurd  !   ! 
Mow  droll — a  wedding  ring!  .  .  . 
Somehow  we  don't  perceive  the  fun; 
'  For  seven,  fourteen,  or  twenty-one" 
Is  now  the  style  of  thing. 

We  meet  our  charmer  in  the  Row; 

One  glance! — 'tis  love  at  sight — 
We  meet  again  at  rout  or  hop, 
A  valse,  two  ices,  and  then  pop, — 

Boulogne  to-morrow  night. 

No  trousseau  cumbers  up  the  fair 

With  heaps  of  costly  trash  ; 
No  wedding  breakfast  makes  her  ill, 
Nor  speeches  that  won't  pay  the  bill, 

Nor  "  settlements"  of  cash. 

\Y<'  register  no  fees  on  earth, 

No  vows  record  in  heaven; 
A  sheet  of  cream-laid  note — 'tis  done! 
For  seven,  fourteen,  or  twenty-one.  .  .  . 

Suppose  we  try  for  seven? 


1 


FORTY-FIVE. 


OW  is  it  that  I'm  forty-five 

And  still  so  very  much  unmarried? 
Why  did  I  wait  so  long  to  wive, 
Or  was  it  that  the  ladies  tarried  ? 


I  rather  think  that  as  a  boy 
My  notions  were  not  celibatic  ; 

At  fourteen  I  was  scarcely  coy, 

But  dreamt  of  heav'n  in  an  attic, — 

With  Katy,  aetat.  thirty-two, 

And  wrote  her  an  amazing  ditty  ; 

"  My  heart  for  her  should  still  be  true"- 
And  she  refused  it — heartless  Kitty  ! 


I  did  not  weep!   if  she'd  said  "yes" 

It  might  have  been  a  theme  for  laughter; 

My  suff'rings  led  me  to  confess 
To  Mary  Jane  a  fortnight  after. 


20 


FORTY-FIVE,  _M 

Poor  Poll !  (I  call  you  so  because 

No  sense  of  injury  now  rankles) — 
I  think  our  casus  spooni  w 

You  had  such  very  pretty  ankles  : 

Pretercea  nil!  might  end  the  clause 

But  that  would  be  ungenerous,  very  .  .  . 

Lizette  had  elephantine  paws 
But  cheeks  as  rosy  as  a  cherry. 

Louisa  next, — my  little  Loo! — 

Whose  hand  I  claimed  with  fervent  kisses ; 
Unluckily  these  things  take  two, 

And  one  declined  becoming  Mrs. 

A  time  arrives  when  ever}-  man 

Has  fatuous  feelings  for  a  cousin, 
And  if  the  first  "  draws  blank"  he  caw 

(At  least  I  did)  try  half  a  dozen  ;  — 

First,  second,  third, — still  no  success, — 

Fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth,  the  numbers  ran  on  ; 

Not  one  my  lonely  lot  would  bless, 
Two  were  forbidden  by  the  canon. 

At  last,  at  last!  my  pulse  still  stirs 
As  I  recall  your  vision,  Plm.be! 
3 


22  FORTY-FIVE. 

The  rose-bud  lips  that  owned  me  hers — 
The  form  suggestive  of  a  Hebe ; 

I  swore  that  we  would  never  part, 

Nor  time  nor  change  our  love  make  colder, - 

I  clasped  her  to  my  beating  heart — 

And  ran  my  breast-pin  in  her  shoulder!  .  . 

The  temper's  warm  at  "  sweet  sixteen," 
We  parted  more  in  wrath  than  sorrow  ; 

And  Phoebe's  married  Dick  since  then — 
It's  just  ten  years  ago  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

And  now  love's  chords  no  music  wake, 
I'm  getting  in  the  sere  and  yellow, 

Is  rhere  no  womankind  will  take 
Compassion  on  a  lonely  fellow  ? 

Some  Phoebe  with  less  angry  eyes  ? 

I  think  I've  still  some  love  to  give  her — 
No  more  breast-pins  I'll  patronize, 

But  stick  to  rings  henceforth  forever. 


RINKING    REMINISCENCES. 

C  e  riest  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute. 

ES  it's  awfully  nice, and  all  that  sort  of  thin  :. 
But  please  take  me  hack  to  a  scat, — 
Your  intentions  are  excellent,  Guy,  I  am  sure. 
But  oh  !  may  you  never  be  forced  to  endure 
The  anguish  I  feel  in  my  feet ! 

These  straps  are  too  tight — or  the  wheels  don't  go  right — 

And  my  ankles  have  taken  a  twist, — 
I've  tumbled  at  least  twenty  times  on  my  arm, 
And  Bella  just  gave  me  a  horrible  qualm — 

She  fancies  I've  broken  my  wrist. 

Old  Buffers  has  knocked  me  down  flat  on  my  face 

And  poked  in  my  eye  his  cigar, — 
Young  Larkins  pursues  me  wherever  I  go, 
And  "cannons" — it  must  be  on  purpose,  I  know, 

For  he  never  "collides"  with  Papa. 

Bumped  battered  and  bruised,  kicked  cuffed  and  ill-used. 

I'm  a  "  figure  for  h\n,"  or  for  "  Punch," — 
So  now  that  you've  taken  my  skates  off,  dear  Guy, 
And  I  feel  less  immediately  likely  to  die, 

We'll  adjourn — au  rcz\n>\  after  lunch  ! 


ECHOES    FROM    THE    SAME. 

First  Echo.     Con  expressionc. 

OU  see  me  just  now  on  my  knees 

And  my  elbows,  and  that's  because 

I  arose  in  my  might 

To  immediate  light 

On  the  spot  where  I  previously  was. 

Second  Echo.     Agitato. 

If  I  don't  rise  to  take  off  my  hat, 
I  beg  you  won't  think  me  a  clown, — 

On  occasions  like  these 

One  stands  at  one's  ease 
More  easily  lying  down. 

Third  Echo.     Suffocate. 

It's  pleasant  to  tumble  at  times — 

(The  times  when  one's  ready  to  drop,) — 

He  felt  this  as  well, 

The  elderly  swell 

Who's  floored  me  and  sits  on  the  top. 


24 


/.-  HOES  FROM    THE  SAME. 

I  like  to  sec  folks  at  their  ease, 

Especially  fourteen  stone — 
If  I  asked  him  to  sit 

<  )ff  in)'  head  for  a  bit, 

I  H>  you  think  it  would  spoil  his  fun  ? 

Fourth   Echo.     Con  triumphato. 

I  am  stooping  my  balance  to  gain  ; 

Anon  I  shall  backward  descend  ; 
And  that's  what  I  call 
My  Roman  fall 

And  alternate  Grecian  bend. 

Sundry  Echoes.     Diminuendo. 

What  Splice-bone  says  is  true — 

The  "  exercise"  is  good — 
But  he  might  have  added 
Get  your  legs  padded, 

And  elbows  made  of  wood. 


><^ 


25 


A    LITTLE    BEAUTY. 


AUD'S  a  naughty  little  girl, 
Maudie's  locks  decline  to  curl, 
Spite  all  sense  of  duty, 
But  they' re  f rise' d  up  instead 
Round  her  saucy  little  head, 
Round  her  cheeks  of  white  and  red- 
Maud's  a  little  beauty  ! 


Maud  has  got  a  roguish  eye, 
Maud  has  got  a  tender  sigh, 

Laughters  soft  and  flutey- 
"  Cherries  ripe"  her  lips,  I  swear, 
Did  you  ever  know  a  pair 
Say  so  plainly  "  If  you  dare  !" — 

Maud  the  little  beauty  ! 


Yet  her  lip  you  cannot  reach 
Nor  her  cheek  that's  like  a  peach, 

Round  and  ripe  and  fruity  ; 
You  can  only  look  and  sigh, — 
I  can  only  love,  and  try 
To  discern  the  reason  why 

Maud's  my  little  beauty? 


2') 


A    l.l  M  I  i     BKAU  i  V.' 


=7 


[VE    YEARS'    CHARACTER. 

IYK  years  amic !  five  years  ago, 

It  seems  like  yesterday, 
You  whispered  that  mysterious  vow — 
Love — honor — and  obey. 
And,  darling,  you  have  done  your  part, 

And  kept  your  promise,  sweet, — 
You  have  full-filled  an  empty  heart 

And  made  a  life  complete.   .  .   . 
I  testily  that  you  have  been 
The  household  sunshine,  fair}',  queen. — 
A  cool  oasis  ever  green 

Along  life's  desert  sand}', — 
As  good  as  gold, 
And  as  true  as  steel, 
And  as  sweet  as  sugar  candy  ! 


We've  shared  some  pleasure  and  some  pain, 
We've  met  some  ups  and  downs  : 

And  would  you  tie  the  knot  again 

Tho'  all  the  smiles  were  frowns?   .    .    . 

1  ho'  all  the  joys  were  griefs,  1  say, 
And  dimmed  each  brighter  spot, 


30 


A   FIVE    YEARS'    CHARACTER. 

This  girl  would  face  them  all  with  me, — 

You  would,  love,  would  you  not  ? 
And  still  would  be  what  you  have  been, 
My  household  fairy,  sunshine,  queen  — 
A  cool  oasis  ever  green 

Amidst  life's  deserts  sandy, — 
As  good  as  gold, 
And  as  true  as  steel, 
And  as  sweet  as  sugar  candy. 


PAINTING    THE    LILY." 

AINT  my  Lily?  you'd  be  clever' 
She  is  "  beautiful  for  ever" — 
Beauteous  with  a  stick  of  cork, 
Lovely  with  a  coat  of  chalk  ! 
From  the  calyx  to  the  stalk — 
Neck,  I  mean — and  all  the  rest. 
To  the  snow  upon  her  breast, — 
To  the  glittering  of  her  hair, 
Shaking  gold-dust  out,  I  swear; — 
Every  charm  in  which  you  revelled 
Powdered  plaistered  or  bedevilled.   .   .   . 

All  the  Flow'r-show  dyed  ? — Who  knows  ? 
Frank  declares  his  blooming  Rose 
Wears  a  blush  that  never  goes, 
Never  lessens,  never  grows — 
And  sweet  Violet's  fiance 
Ascertained  tin-  other  day 
That  her  petals  washed  away  ! 
(Petals! — Hye-brows,  I  should  say 
Leaving  only  something  gray.  .  .  . 

These  effects  make  m\  adorer 

4  3" 


32 


"PAINTING    THE  LILY." 

Rather  dubious  of  his  Flora, 

With  the  blushes  of  Aurora, 

With  the  reds  and  snow-whites  o'er  her 

Lead  him  to  be  shy  of  Lily — 

Roses  picked  in  Piccadilly — 

Make  his  views  of  Violet  hazy  — 

Predisposed  to  like  a  Daisy  ? 


naughty  two-shoes. 

RETTY  naughty  Two-shoes 

Bought  a  pair  of  blue  shoes, 
Bought  a  pair  of  silken  hose  all  striped  with  white 

and  red  ; 
Bought  a  skipping  rope  for  skipping — 
When  they  threatened  her  with  whipping 
Skipt  them  straightway  into  kissing  her  instead. 

Skipt  them  into  such  ecstatics 

That  they  thronged  from  base  to  attics 
Peeping  out  from  garret-window,  pane,  and  door ; 

Skipt  the  bumpkins  out  of  wits, 

Skipt  their  sweethearts  into  fits, 
Skipt  them  higher  than  was  ever  seen  before. 

Basta!  cried  the  lame  schoolmaster — 

But  she  only  skipt  the  faster 
With  her  beautiful  kaleidoscopic  feet, 

From  the  squire  to  the  clown 

Skipt  the  village  upside-  down, — 
And  I  doubt  if  it  has  ever  lighted  yet ! 


THE    SQUIRE   AND    THE    NEW    PARSON'S 

GIRL 


IT II  wild  locks  streaming  from  the  braid 
That  fillets  them  in  vain, 
Who  is  this  hatless  demoisel 
Comes  flying  down  the  lane  ? 
It  must  be  our  new  parson's  girl — 
I  think  they  call  her  Jane  ? 

They  really  shouldn't  let  her  out 

In  such  prepost'rous  guise — 
Sixteen  ?  and  in  a  pinafore, 

Suggestive  of  dirt  pies  ! 
Frock'd  to  the  knee!  .  .  .  and  what  a  pair 

Of  great  blue  saucer  eyes  ! 

The  fair  Miss  Jenny's  future  lord 

Will  need  to  have  a  care  ! — 
Despite  the  piquant  little  nose 

"  Tip-tilted"  in  the  air — 
They  glitter  like  two  corn-flow'rs  thro' 

That  hayfield  of  her  hair. 

And  then  her  mouth  !  a  mile  too  wide — 
But  arched  like  Cupid's  bow, 


34 


THE  SQUIRE  AND    THE  NEW  PARSONS  GIRL 

And  strung  with  pearls — I  never  saw 

Such  a  surprising  row: 
All  womankind  might  "show  their  teeth" 

If  they'd  such  teeth  to  show. 

Twould  almost  be  worth  while  to  make 

The  little  vixen  scold, 
If  but  to  see  the  scornful  smile 

Flash  out  so  bright  and  bold.   .  .  . 
There  isn't  such  a  face  for  miles, 

Though  half  the  shire  were  poll'd. 

And  face  and  figure  ought  to  match, 

Or  nature's  made  a  slip  ; 
She  seems  as  flexible  and  straight 

As  my  new  riding-whip — 
Upon  my  word  if  she'd  a  chance 

I  think  she'd  like  to  skip.   .   .   . 

And  I  should  like  to  hold  the  rope  ! 

Tho'  skipping's  not  my  way.   .  .  . 
She  leads  them  all  a  pretty  life 

Up  at  the  Grange,  they  say.  .  .  . 
It's  really  rude  not  to  have  called  .  .  . 

I  think  I'll  go  to-day. 


SOME    ONE'S    FORGET-ME-NOTS. 


lOME  one's  Forget-me-nots! 
"  Laid  up  in  lavender !" 
Gew-gaws  and  trash  and  stuff- 


Billets-doux — rhymes  enough — 

Love's  ritornellas ; — 
Here's  an  odd  shoe  in  pink 
Once  in  fate's  chain  a  link, 
So  small  one  fain  would  think 
'Tvvas  Cinderella's. 


Two  lace-trimmed  handkerchiefs, 
Six  rosettes  ! — fie  for  shame  ! 
Clearly  the  youthful  flame 

Went  in  for  slippers  ; 
Three  gloves — some  locks  of  hair. 
I  wonder  whose  they  were  ? 
But  at  least  one  may  swear 

They  were  all  "  clippers." 

What's  this  perfume  that  comes 
Faint  as  I  close  the  lid  ? 
Have  I  lock'd  up  instead 

Somebody's  posy  ? 


36 


SOME   ONES  FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

Stay,  I  believe  that  it's 
These  crumpled  violets, 
Heartsease  and  mignonettes — 
Rosebuds  once  rosy  : 

Ready-made  pot-pourri — 

(Sweet-scented  none  the  less) 
Isn't  it  time  all  this 

Rubbish  were  rotten  ? 
Ribbons  and  gloves  and  locks?  — 
Never  mind,  shut  the  box — 

Lie  still  in  lavender, 
Some  one's  Forget-me-nots, 

Long  since  forgotten  ! 


37 


REPLY    TO    A    VALENTINE 

WITH    A   PORTRAIT. 

fAIR  archeress,  the  shafts  you  wield 
Are  splintered  on  a  careless  shield  ; 

A  wandering  knight  on  bootless  quest, 
For  me  there  throbs  no  maiden  breast, 
No  lady's  favor  decks  my  crest. 

With  pointless  spear  and  silken  glove, 
I  tilt  not  in  the  lists  of  love, 

Tho'  beauty's  queen  bestowed  the  prize, — 

And  if  a  smile  my  heart  entice 

'Tis  as  a  sunbeam  strikes  on  ice. 

But  yet,  methinks,  if  life  were  young, 
And  love  were  all  that  bards  have  sung — 
If  you  were  fond,  and  I  were  free, 
Sweet  Valentine — whoe'er  you  be — 
I  fain  would  break  a  lance  for  thee  ! 


38 


I'm    Fair  Archi  ri  ss 


A    GORDIAN    KNOT 


HANDKERCHIEF— dropt  out,  you  say. 

From  the  receptacle  allotted  ? 
Not  much  if  that  were  all,  but  stay, 
This  pocket-handkerchief  is  knotted — 

There  at  one  end — frail  souvenir, 
Hinting  the  need  of  mental  tonics; 

Whence  comes  the  pale  preceptor  here 
To  iiivc  his  lesson  in  mnemonics  ? 

Is  it  from  him  whose  "  un-urned"  shade 

Petitions  that,  instead  of  joking, 
The  debt  of  kinship  should  be  paid 

To-day  at  Kensal  Green  or  Woking  ? 

Poor  Tom  !  you  were  not  much  to  me, 
A  cousin,  twice  removed,  by  marriage, 

Removed  once  more  by  fate's  decree — 
At  any  rate  I'll  send  the  carriage.  .  .  . 

( )i -,  query,  was  it  "  him"  at  all  ? 

This  true-love  knot  may  be  a  token 

Of  some  fair  vision  I'd  recall — 

Of  faithless  vows  and  promise  broken  ? 

5  4' 


42 


A    GORDIAN  KNOT. 

Love's  tryst  unkept  by  haunted  well. 
Its  sweet  forget-me-nots  forgotten.  .  .  , 

Perhaps  it's  only  someone's  bill 

I  back'd  ? — of  course  it  turned  out  rotten,- 

Or  hint  to  pay  that  bet  I  owe 

For  views  about  the  Derby  winner ; 

I'd  rather  much  it  was  to  go 

To  Greenwich  to  a  whitebait  dinner  ?  .  .   . 

Of  pay  or  play  may  preach  this  knot — 
Of  death  or  duns  or  love's  emotion — 

I  tied  it  yesterday,  but  what 

It  means  I've  not  the  faintest  notion. 


WANTED    AN    IDEA. 

WANT  an  idea,  if  you've  got  it 
Be  pleased  to  impart  on  the  spot : 
You'll  probably  think 

The  idea's  for  a  rink 
Or  a  bank  or  bazaar — but  it's  not. 

Not  at  all  !   I  disclaim  all  design 

On  your  pockets,  past,  future  or  present  — 

Then  of  course  you'll  suppose 

It's  a  poem  or  prose, 
Or  a  sermon  or  song — but  it  isn't. 

You'd  say  it  was  something  in  art 

Or  in  science — that  should  be,  or  shouldn't — 
'Twould  be  something  that's  new, 
Or  at  least  something  true — 
Something  somehow,  you  know — but  it  wouldn't 

No,  no!  F.  R.  S.  and  R.  A., 

My  idea  isn't  what  you  call  savant — 
Not  Tyndall  or  Phiz — 
But  what  the  devil  it  is 
P'rhaps  you've  got  some  idea — for  I  haven't 

43 


ANTI-ANTIQUARIAN. 

O  I  doat  upon  "  desolate  towers  ?" 
I  really  can't  say  that  I  do ; 
They  afford  no  protection  from  showers 
But  copious  cob-webs  and  dew. 

These  courts  (do  you  ever  play  tennis  ?) 
Are  Norman  ?  No,  Saxon,  I'm  sure  : 

That  arch  Saracenic? — at  Venice 
And  Cairo  I've  seen  them  before. 

Let  them  sleep  with  their  founders  below  them  — 

The  sight  of  a  lot  of  old  stones 
Won't  stop  an  east  wind  howling  thro'  them 

And  chilling  one  into  the  bones. 

My  taste  doesn't  run  into  gables 

Or  buttresses  old  as  the  flood  ; 
I'd  rather  put  faith  in  "  Last  Fables" 

Than  the  dates  of  Professor  Macmud. 


"  Stone  Facts"  I  believe  to  be  fiction — 
"  Rock  Records"  afford  me  no  joy, — 

No,  I  haven't  the  least  predilection 
For  desolate  towers,  old  boy. 


44 


FOR    SALE,   PENSIVE    SELIMA. 


ILL  any  one  bid  for  a  cat ? 

Whose  coat  is  the  softest  of  silk — 
Who's  sleek  and  well-liking  and  fat — 
And  never  refuses  her  milk. 


Whose  mistress  no  scratcli  can  aver, 
Whose  master  has  never  been  bitten, 

Who's  warranted  always  to  purr, 

And  not  to  have  more  than  one  kitten 

A  cat  who  will  polish  off  mice 

And  rats  till  the  peep  of  Aurora — 

In  short  who's  delightfully  nice, 
A  regular  first-rate  Angora  ? 


45 


A    CURL    IN    A    LETTER. 


LETTER,  and  a  yellow  curl, — 

To  call  it  "  sandy"  p'raps  might  rile  her- 
Who's  this  romantic  little  girl 
That's  fain  to  be  her  own  Delilah  ? 


For  me  I  who  never  cared  a  rap 

For  rounded  waist  or  taper  ankle, — 

At  whom  no  spinster  sets  her  cap, 

No  Cupid  shoots  the  shafts  that  rankle ! 

"  My  dear — I  grieve  to  make  you  pout — 
But  still  it  is  imprudent,  very, 

To  show'r  your  golden  gifts  about 

In  this  way  on  Dick,  Tom,  and  Harry  ; 


46 


'  No  doubt  you've  charms  you  highly  prize 
Or  else  you'd  scarce  be  Adam's  daughter,- 

There  may  be  death  in  your  blue  eyes, 
But — don't  affect  promiscuous  slaughter." 


A    CI  RL    IN  A    LETTER. 

Well  preach'd !  but  somehow  don't  sound  nice? — 

And  letters  lead  to  tittle-tattle.   .   .   . 
I  think  one  ought  to  give  advice 

Vive  voi.x — the  tone  is  half  the  battle?  .   . 

Twould  not  be  hard  to  match  this  curl — 
But  should  I  like  its  fellow  better?   .   .   . 

.  .  .  You  very  ycllow-pated  girl 

Who  wrote  me  this  romantic  letter? 


OUTSIDE. 

UST  a  gleam  thro'  the  darkness 
The  lift  of  two  eyes  from  a  book — 

A  glance,  but  some  glances  are  heaven. 
To  such  eyes  'tis  given 
To  make  Paradise  in  a  look. 

Just  a  face  in  the  lamplight, 

A  hand  and  some  glittering  hair, 

But  hearts  have  been  broken  it's  said 

And  white  steel  stained  red 
For  faces  less  faultlessly  fair. 

Just  a  girl  in  her  beauty 

Her  glory  of  freshness  and  youth. 

But  what  has  earth  better  to  sigh  for 

To  live  for  to  die  for 
Than  innocence  beauty  and — Ruth  ? 


48 


i  M    i  SIDE." 


THE    BLOATED    BIGGAROON. 

I  E  bloated  Biggaroon, 
Was  so  haughty,  he  would  not  repose 
In  a  house,  or  a  hall,  or  ces  choses, 
But  he  slept  his  high  sleep  in  his  clothes — 
Neath  the  moon. 

The  bloated  Biggaroon, 
Thinking  scorn  of  effeminate  fops 
Who  use  knives  to  dismember  their  chops, 
Ate  with  hands  his  proud  meats,  and  his  slops 

Without  spoon. 

The  bloated  Biggaroon 
Poured  contempt  upon  waistcoat  and  skirt. 
Holding  swallow-tails  even  as  dirt — 
So  he  puff  d  himself  out  in  his  shirt, 

Like  a  b'loon. 

The  bloated  Biggaroon 
Scorned  to  pay  a  ridiculous  race 
Petty  cash — so  the  race,  meanly  base, 
Locked  him  up  in  a  rather  ridiculous  place 
Rather  soon. 

6  5« 


UNSUNG   SONGS. 
I. 

PARFAIT   AMOUR. 

JOU  all  knew  St.  Pierre's,  with  the  star  in  the  blind, 
And  Julie,  the  love-star,  that  glittered  behind  ? 
Chartreuse,  Curacoa,  Acqua  d'Oro,  Russie, 
Grew  dim  when  compared  with  the  smiles  of  Julie. 
One  day,  with  his  lute  and  his  long  flowing  hair, 
Came  a  minstrel  and  played,  at  the  Star  of  St.  Pierre, — 

"  What  will  you  please  take  ?" — stopped   the  youth   in   the 

door — 
"Oh,  give  me,  dear  maiden,  some p arj ait  amour;" 
He  sighed,  as  he  turned  him  away  from  the  door, 
"  There's  no  wine  that's  so  sweet  as  your  parfait  amour!" 

Now  morn,  noon,  and  eve,  for  his  glass  of  liqueur 
To  the  Star  of  St.  Pierre  came  that  young  troubadour ; 
And  ever  his  cheek  it  grew  pale  as  the  snow, 
For  the  love-light  burnt  up  as  the  life-light  burnt  low. 
But  Julie  smiled  on  ;  not  a  blush  nor  a  sigh 
Played  tell-tale  to  Love  when  Bertrandie  was  nigh  ; 
52 


BITTER    VERMUTH. 

And  the  boy  never  speaks  ;  was  he  rich?  was  he  poor?  — 
He  asks  but  a  glass  of  her patfait  amour. 

Ah,  Julie  !   tin)'  rich,  for  your  sake  he  is  poor, 
And  he  dies  for  one  drop  of  your  parfait  amour. 

Months  fly — still  a  youth  with  his  long  flowing  hair, 
May  be  seen  drinking  wine  at  the  Star  of  St.  Pierre, 
And  Julie-la-belle,  whilst  his  liqueur  he  sips, 
Still  witches  his  heart  with  her  eyes  and  her  lips. 
Such  eyes  pass  not  coldly  when  often  they  greet — 
'Twould  be  hard  that  such  lips  should  not  manage  to  meet. 
Yet  I  know  not,  in  sooth,  if  her  young  troubadour 
Still  sighs  to  his  lute,  "  Julie,  parfait  amour/" — 
If  he  pines  in  despair,  or,  his  anguish  to  cure, 
She  has  given  him  the  glass  of  her  parfait  amour. 


;> 


II. 
BITTER   VERMUTH. 

V    ANOTHER    HAND,  i 

I,  prate  not  to  me  of  your  Parfait  amour/ 
Your  old  maraschino  or  dry  curagoa; 
Such  syrupy  fluids  are  not  to  my  taste, 
Too  honied  their  flavor  too  oily*  their  flow  : 


54  "  OH,   IF  LIFE   WERE  A   BUMPER." 

But  fill  me  a  draught  that  my  temper  will  suit — 
A  bumper  of  bitingly  bitter  Vermuth. 

I'm  sick  of  the  sugary  shams  that  enchant 

The  ignorant  palates  of  girls  and  of  boys, — 

The  chalk-cover'd  comfits,  half  poison  half  paint, 

The  pleasures  that  pall  and  the  sweetness  that  cloys ; 

Outside  they're  as  tempting  as  Dead  Sea-shore  fruit, 

Inside — why  they're  worse  than  my  bitter  Vermuth. 

Then  fill  to  the  brim  !  and  we'll  drink  to  the  Fates, 
The  cynical  trio  who  parcel  our  lives, — 

Our  creditors  pledge  in  the  golden-green  gall, 

And  whilst  we're  about  it  we'll  drink  to  our  wives — 

Let  optimists  shudder,  cry  scandal,  and  hoot, 

We'll  stand  to  our  liquor  :  Vive  bitter  Vermuth  !. 


III. 
"OH,  IF   LIFE   WERE   A   BUMPER." 

H,  if  life  were  a  bumper  of  glittering  wine 

And  death  but  the  bubble  that  bursts  as  it  wakes, 
How  gladly  the  magical  draught  we  should  drain 
Like  the  goblet  that  sparkles  its  best  as  it  breaks, — 
For  there's  nothing  makes  joy  sparkle  up  to  the  brain 
Like  a  glorious  bumper  of  golden  champagne  1 


"OH,   IF  LIFE    WERE  A    BUMPER." 

Tis  an  April-day  world  that  we  live  in  at  best, 

So  fleeting  the  pleasures,  so  dark  arc  the  cares ; 

Like  a  landscape  all  chequered  with  shadows  and  mist, 
Where  a  sunbeam  is  trying  to  kiss  off  its  tears, — 
And  the  sun  that  best  shines  off  the  mists  of  the  brain 
ts  a  glorious  bumper  of  golden  champagne. 

Then  fill  up  with  glittering  wine  to  the  brim — 

Let  it  smile  like  the  smile  of  sweet  beauty  around, 

Like  a  night-star  of  pleasure  at  morning's  fust  beam 
Some  rosy  Aurora  still  waking  hath  found  ; — 

And  the  last  and  best  toast  that  in  brimmers  we'll  drain 

Is  a  glorious  bumper  of  golden  champagne! 


55 


HUNTING   A    "SLIPPER." 


IS  there  any  one  can  tell  a 
Fellow  what's  become  of  Bella ! 
(She's  an  angel  that  I've  spotted 
With  a  pig-tail)   .  .  .  Stay — I've  got  it  . 
Fifty  pardons  .  .  .  Why  that's  not  it  ? 

Yet  this  is  the  corner  where 

She  "  inhabits  ?" — that's  her  chair — 
Here's  her  card  with  my  name  in  it : 
Ices  ?  ha,  that  must  have  been  it, 
She'll  be  back  in  half  a  minute : 

She'll  return  with  all  her  graces — 

With  the  exquisest  of  faces — 

Would  have  driven  wild  a  Lawrence, — 
Figure  makes  one  feel  abhorrence 
Of  the  Venuses  of  Florence. 

Shames  the  Venus  of  Canova, 

Knocks  the  Capitolian  over, 

Might  have  made  a  Milo  jealous — 
Such  a  foot  and  hand  are  Bella's! — 
Twice  as  nice  as  Cinderella's.  .  .  . 


56 


HUNTING   A    "  SI.  I  ITER  ." 

And  the  last  step  out  I'll  teach  her, 
Beaming  Love  in  every  feature, 

Blushing  when  soft  whispers  reach  her, 
Answ'rin^  shyly,  "  ask  my  mother"   * 
Jove  !  she's  dancing  with  another ! ! 


:  r.       , 


THE    BUTTERFLY    CHAINED. 


HEN  my  years  were  gay  eighteen 
Rumor  says  that  I've  been  seen 
Oft  disporting  on  the  green 
Mid  the  bow'rs, 
Now  enraptured  with  the  rose 
Now  entranced  by  lily's  snows 
Or  coquetting  with  a  nose- 
gay of  fiow'rs. 


There  are  charms  I  must  admit 
Tn  thus  playing  the  coquette — 
In  this  light  conter fleurette 

Everywhere, 
From  the  Picnic  to  the  "  hop" — 
At  Swan  &  Edgar's  shop, 
Or  sitting  on  the  top 

Ball-room  stair. 


58 


In  those  days  it's  been  averred 
That  my  giddy  pulse  was  stirr'd 


THE   BUTTERFLY  CHAINED. 


By  a  -lance  or  by  a  word 

Shot  at  me, — 
Now  such  beatings  arc  misplaced 
For  my  heart  is  locked  and  laced 
And  my  I  )aisy  .it  her  waist 

Keeps  the  key  ! 


QUACK!   QUACK!!    QUACK!!! 

First  Patient. 

H,  doctor  dear  make  haste  ! 

Give  me  something  nice  to  taste- 
I'm  bent  like  a  ball 
With  what  you  may  call 
A  headache  in  the  waist. 

First  Quack. 

I'll  give  you  a  box  of  Pills — 

They  cure  all  earthly  ills — 
Take  ten  at  a  time 
You'll  find  it  sublime — 

(If  it  doesn't  cure  it  kills.) 

Second  Patient. 

Oh,  doctor  I  shall  die  ! 

I've  just  poked  out  my  eye — 
It's  black  as  a  nigger 
And  five  times  bigger 

Than  the  biggest  gooseberry  pie  ! 


60 


Q  ( :  l  CK  I    'J  UAi  A' .'.'    Q  LA '  K  III  (,  \ 

Sei  OND    <  >UACK. 

I  give  you  a  splendid  LOTION, 

(What  it  docs  I  haven't  a  notion 
Keep  mopping  it  fast 
You'll  find  out  at  last 

The  plan  of  perpetual  motion. 

Third  Patient. 

1  I  dp  doctor  dear,  I  b< 

I  want  screwing  up  a  "  peg" — 
I  happened  to  fall 
1  1 1  »m  the  top  of  St.  Paul 

And  fractured  my  dexter  leg! 

Third  Quack. 

I'll  give  you  an  OlNTMENT  of  power — 

You'll  rub  it  in  for  an  hour — 
( If  you  fancy  it  two — 
It's  amusing  for  you 

And  won't  hurt — it's  tallow  and  flour). 

Chorus  of  Quacks  and  Patients. 

This  world's  all  take  and  give, 

One  dies  that  t'other  may  live, 
And  fools  for  knaves 
Drop  into  their  graves 

As  sand  drops  through  a  sieve  ! 


A    FINE    OLD    BUSTER. 

|Y  neighbor  Claptinbank  is  worth  a  pot, 
And  naturally  feels  he  sheds  a  lustre 
On  the  whole  human  family — he's  what 
I  call  a  fine  old  Buster. 

Respectable  as  even  three  per  cents., 

Broad  as  his  lands  and  boundless  as  his  lunches  ; 
His  waist  was  once  as  slender  as  his  rents — 

It  now  resembles  Punch's. 

Madame  is  round  and  sound,  but  cheery  most, 

With  pleasant  kindly  ways  good-nature  taught  her, 

I  would  all  mother-ladyships  could  boast 
As  nice  a  little  daughter !   .  .  . 

I  married  Maud — about  this  time  last  year — 

And  now  think  Claptinbank  can  well  pass  muster; 

Why  is  it,  tho',  he  can't  endure  to  hear 
Me  call  him  "  fine  old  Buster?" 


2 


^Ata**s\-<t  *^~ 


■   \  I'im   Old  Bi    Mi 


"DRE1    BITTE." 

1. 1   1".  flow'r  to  true  love  dear 
By  haunted  fountain  drips, 
Lend  me  thy  lips 
That  I  may  whisper  into  some  one's  ear. 

Lonely,  my  star  of  night, 

Lovely  pale  star  that  lies 
Trembling  as  twilight  dies, 
Give  me  thine  eyes 
That  some  one  may  look  into  mine  for  light. 

And  oh  ye  birds  of  wood  ! 

And  vocal  fields  and  plain, 
Hymning  soft  praise  in  vain 
For  me  answering  not  again, 
Teach  me  your  strain — 

I  too  would  sing  to  some  one,  Love  is  good. 


65 


AN    UNINVITED    GUEST. 

HE  supper  and  the  song  had  died 
When  to  my  couch  I  crept ; 
I  flung  the  muslin  curtains  wide 
And  took  a  first-class  place  inside — 
It  might  have  seemed  I  slept. 

Yet  scarce  the  drowsy  god  had  woo'd 

My  pillow  to  befriend, 
When  fancy,  how  extremely  rude  ? 
A  fellow  evidently  screw'd 

Got  in,  the  other  end ! 

The  bolster  from  my  side  he  took 

To  make  his  own  complete, 
Then  gazed  at  me  with  scornful  look, — 
With  wrath  my  very  pulses  shook 
And  quivered  to  my  feet. 

I  kicked  of  course — long  time  in  doubt 

The  war  waged  to  and  fro ; 
At  last  I  kicked  the  rascal  out 
And  woke — to  find  explosive  gout 
Developed  in  my  toe. 


66 


AT    BRINDISI,  ON    BOARD   THE    P.   &   0. 

CAN'T  say  much  for  "  Brindisi  the  blest," 
As  one  poor  lady  called  it  who  was  sick, 
But  yet  to  English  eyes  it  boasts  a  charm 
A  strip  of  deep  green  grass,  that  after  sand 

And  olive-tinted  fields  and  groves  ami  trees, 

Comes  with  a  cool  refreshing  hope  of  home. 

And  tranquilly  beside  the  "  Pera"  lies, 

As  glad  to  rest  after  her  long  sea-strife; 

Hut  all  upon  her  deck  is  bustling  life, 

For  last  adios  wished,  hand-shakings  past, 

And  civil  stewardess  "tipped"  like  Dian's  shafts, 

Each  one  just  now  is  looking  after  one, 

Excepting  Benedict,  who  seeks  his  spouse, 

Not  yet  emerged  from  cabin  mysteries, 

And  charges  up  the  trunk-encumbered  poop, 

Regardless  of  his  own  or  others'  neck 

Or  long-backed  chad's  which  hump  his  faithful  le 

There  goes  our  g.iy  grass-widow  whom  they  call 
The  "Stormy  Petrel,"  for  she  tells  her  friends 
There's  always  some  disaster  when  she  sails; 


68  AT  BR1ND1SI,   ON  BOARD    THE    P.  &*   O. 

And  she  has  sailed  three  times  with  Captain  Jack, 

And  every  time  a  damage  or  a  loss — 

A  twisted  axle  or  a  broken  screw — 

And  when  he  saw  her  on  the  grancrwav  first 

O  O  J 

At  Alexandria,  crying  "  Now  I've  come 
Captain,  look  out  for  squalls  !"   he  was  so  mad 
They  thought  he'd  send  her  back;  but  all  went  well 
For  some  one  hid  a  horse-shoe  in  her  berth.  .  .  . 

And  there's  the  stout  Mynheer  who  always  wears 
A  patent  air-belt  underneath  his  coat 
And  loaded  pistols  ready  nrimed  to  shoot 
The  thi< 

VVouli     ilch  the)   made 

■  retence  that  we  must  sink,  and  this  fat  man, 
Too  scant  of  breath  t'  inflate  the  saviour  ba<j. 
Went  rushing  madly  up  and  down  the  ship, 
Beseeching  every  one  "  Give  me  von  blow  !"  .   .   . 

Our  pets  are  going  too — the  pale-faced  ape 
Who  looked  so  mild  but  bit  me  to  the  bone ; 
The  Colonel's  poodle,  Mop,  and  last  not  least. 
The  cockatoo  who  called  poor  Bishop  Smith 
"  A  (naughty  word)  old  fool,"  and  had  to  be 
Removed  for  laughing,  when  his  Reverence  read 


/'/    BRINDISf,  ON   BOARD    THE    P.  &*  O. 


The  prayers  on  Sunday  <m  the  quarter-deck. 
Going,  going,  gonel  and  I'm  the  last  that's  left 
Perched  like  a  Jew  amongst  a  heap  of  coats: 
Well  good-bye  all!  and  good-bye  too  my  May, 
For  here  comes  Gus  to  say  the  train  is  in. 


THE    WORLD'S    MINE    OYSTER." 

HE  world's  mine  oyster!"  but,  alas! 
No  other  oyster's  in  my  reach ; 
Oh  friends,  how  does  it  come  to  pass 
That  you've  arrived  at  threepence  each  ? 

Time  was — away,  bewildering  thought ! 

The  fancy  sets  my  pulses  thrilling — 
A  dozen  "  natives"  might  be  bought, 

With  bread  and  butter,  for  a  shilling.  .  .  . 

But  these  are  glories  of  the  past, 

We  hardly  wonder  where  they've  got  to ; 

A  generation's  coming  fast 

Won't  even  recollect  "  the  grotto," — 

And  when  that  old  New  Zealand  swell 
Arrives  on  London  bridge  to  pose, 

He'll  find  the  final  oyster  shell 
Suspended  from  Britannia's  nose ! 


70 


A    BRACE    OF    VALENTINES. 

i. 

TO    A    LADY,   WITH    A    RING. 

WEET  Valentine,  dear  lady  mine. 
Love  lays  an  offering  at  your  shrine — 
Yet  mete  not  by  this  span  of  gold 
That  which  would  reach  thro'  years  untold, 
Would  burn  when  life  itself  is  cold. 
Not  with  the  dazzling  fitful  gleam 
That  gilds  the  stripling's  fever-dream, — 
(For  love — the  dream-love  of  the  boy — 
Is  but  a  glittering  summer  toy — ) 
But  with  the  strong  and  steady  glow 
But  with  the  deep  and  tender  flow. 
That  a  man's  heart  alone  can  know, 
Pouring  his  soul  out  at  her  feet 
Whose  smile  could  make  all  dark  things  sweet   . 
Love  undivided  close  and  dear 
With  ready  arm  to  guide  and  cheer, 
I  lis  breast  her  shield  from  every  fear  : 
Love  changeless  still,  where  change  is  rife, 
Thro'  storm  and  calm,  thro'  peace  and  strife, 
For  grief  for  joy,  for  death  for  life  ! 
Love  breathed  in  one  soft  whisper — wife. 

7' 


7* 


A    BRACE    OF    VALENTINES. 


II. 

WITH    A    BUTTERFLY'S    WING. 

HEN  Flora  the  fair  blossomed  forth  as  a  rose 
In  the  burden  of  beauty  and  summer  of  scent, 
Is't  known  that  she  buried  her  blushes  in  snows  ? 
Or  waited  to  scatter  her  sweets  till  she  went  ? 

See  the  butterfly,  burnished  with  glitter  and  gold, 
How  he  decks  himself  out  for  his  bridals  in  June  ; 

If  he  waited  for  wooing  till  autumn  was  old 

Don't  you  think  he  might  find  his  enchantress  had  flown  ? 

Then,  loiterer,  list  my  advice  in  your  ear — 

Fly  frosts  of  the  winter  and  showers  of  spring, 

Shine  out  like  the  sun  whilst  the  summer  is  here 
And  the  tints  of  the  rainbow  are  all  on  the  wing ! 


CONTER    FLEURETTE. 

31'  >VES  me — he  loves  me  not" — 
Ah,  golden  Margaret  ! 
Tell  me,  then,  has  he  got 
Truth  in  his  heart  or  not, 
Love  in  his  heart  or  what  ? — 
Coitcr  fieurette. 

Ah,  tell  me  true,  I  pray, 

Gentle  white  Margarel 

What  does  my  lover  say 

Now  he  is  far  away, 

Where  do  his  glances  stray — 

Is  it  at  Maud  or  May? — 
Center  fieurette. 

1  have  a  fear  full  sore. 

Weary,  my  Margaret, — 
That  he  has  taken  more 
Than  he  gave  ten  times  o'er, 
Loit'ring  by  lattice  door, 
Listing  the  streamlet's  pour, 
Ling'ring  on  sunset  shore — 

( 'onter  fieurette. 


WITH    THE    HORSE    "WHITE    MIST.'* 

HE  sequel  of  to-day  dissevers  all 
This  fellowship  of  straight  riders,  and  hard  men 
To  hounds — the  flyers  of  the  hunt  .  .   . 

I  think 
That  we  shall  never  more  in  days  to  come 
Hold  cheery  talk  of  hounds  and  horses,  each 
Praising  his  own  the  most, — shall  steal  away 
Through  brake  and  coppice-wood,  or  side  by  side 
Breast  the  sharp  bullfinch  and  deep-holding  dyke, 
Sweep  through  the  uplands,  skim  the  vale  below, 
And  leave  the  land  behind  us  like  a  dream. 

Farewell  to  all !  to  the  brave  sport  I  loved — 
Though  Paget  sware  that  I  should  ride  again — 
But  yet  I  think  I  shall  not;   I  have  done  : 
My  hunt  is  hunted  :   I  have  skimmed  the  cream, 
The  blossom  of  the  seasons,  and  no  more 
For  me  shall  gallant  Scott  have  cause  for  wrath, 
Or  injured  Smallpiece  mourn  his  wasted  crops. 

*  Lines  sent  to  the  late  Charles  Buxton,  M.l'.,  with  a  favorite  horse,  on   the 
author  giving  np  hunting  owing  to  an  accident  in  the  hunting  field. 

76 


//7/7/    THE    HORS1:    ••  WHITE  MIST. 


77 


Now,  therefore,  take  my  horse,  which  was  my  pride 
(For  still  thou  know'st  he  bore  me  like  a  man — ), 
And  wheel  him  not,  nor  plunge  him  in  the  mere, 
lint  set  him  straight  and  give  his  head  the  rein. 
And  he  shall  bear  thee  lightly  to  the  front, 
Swifter  than  wind,  and  stout  as  truest  steel, 
And  none  shall  rob  thee  of  tin-  pride  of  place. 


- 


MUSICAL    UNDERTONES. 

ERR  BELLOWS  won't  you  sing  ? 
(Or  rather  won't  you  roar? — ) 
I  should  like  so  to  accompany  you — 
(As  far  as  the  street  door)  .  .  . 

Miss  Squeals  will  take  her  part 

In  that  charming  duette  by  Meyer, 

With  Signor  Buffo  ?  (that's  two  at  a  go, 
I  wish  I  could  do  them  "en  choir")  .  .  . 

Lord  Whooper  sings  I  know 

(Too  well !  and  always  flat) 
What  an  exquisite  air — (for  a  dirge  on  the  stair  ! 

Assisted  by  the  cat)  .  .  . 

Shan't  we  hear  your  voice,  madame  ? 

(Be  thanked!  she's  a  cold  in  the  head — ) 
Pray  pity  our  loss — (what  a  fool  I  was  ! 

She's  going  to  "  play  instead")  .  .  . 

"  Encore !"  (oh,  I  can't  stand  this — 
They're  going  it,  hammer  and  tongs : 

Confound  them  all !   I'll  go  out  in  the  hall 
And  leather  away  at  the  gongs  !) 


78 


A    DAISY    CHAIN. 

I  I  I    white-rose  decks  the  breast  of  May, 
The  red-rose  smiles  in  [une, 

Yet  autumn  chills  and  winter  kills 

And  leaves  their  stems  alone  ; 
Ah,  swiftly  dies  the  garden's  pride 

Whose  sleep  no  waking  knows, — 
But  my  love  she  is  the  daisy 

That  all  the  long  year  grows. 

The  early  woods  are  gay  with  green, 

The  fields  are  prankt  with  gold, 
But  fair  must  fade  and  green  hi-  grayed 

Before  the  year  is  old  ; 
The  blue-bell  hangs  her  shining  head. 

No  more  the  oxslip  blows, — 
But  my  love  she  is  the  daisy 

That  all  the  long  year  grows. 

Still  deck,  wild  woods,  your  mantle  green, 
All  meads  bright  jewels  wear, 
9 


8o  A    DAISY   CHAIN. 

Let  showers  of  Spring  fresh  violets  bring 
And  sweetness  load  the  air ; 

Whilst  Summer  boasts  her  roses  red 
And  March  her  scented  snows, — 

My  love  be  still  the  daisy, 

And  my  heart  whereon  she  grows. 


ON    r.IKiSTS 


By     A      M  \  I  IK  I A  1. 1ST. 


UON'T  go  much  for  ghosts — altho1  no  doubt 

Humanitarians  feci  a  predilection 
For  such  "  leave-ticket"  gentry,  loose  about 
In  history  and  fiction  ; — 


Familiar  spirits,  loved  but  never  lost! 

Like  that  vex'd  shade  in  Corsica's  twin  Brothers, 
Or  in  Macbeth,  Don  Juan,  Hamlet,  Faust. 
And  half  a  hundred  others: 

Of  which,  N.  B.,  not  half  are  ghosts  at  all, 

But  nondescripts  defying  diagnosis 
Tho'  Mrs.  Crowe  herself  the  list  should  call 
Of  each  metempsychosis. 


Faust's  Mephistopheles  who  filch'd  his  soul 
Was  just  a  "psychic"  with  a  kleptomania. 
(In  this  resembling  Oberon — who  stole 
The  changeling  of  Titania — ) 


81 


82  ON  GNOSIS: 

Ondine's  a  "  Nymph,"  who  wanted  to  be  kissed 

And  didn't,  both  at  once,  case  not  uncommon, — 
And,  barring  liquids,  it  must  be  confessed 
A  rather  nice  young  woman  : 

Ariel's  a  puzzle,  or  has  always  been 

To  me — altho'  the  part  plays  neatly,  very, — 
But  then  it's  only  fair  to  add  I've  seen 
It  acted  by  Kate  Terry : 

Avenel's  White  Lady  of  the  Fountain  grieved 
Because  the  girdle  at  her  waist  grew  shorter, 
Proving  herself,  if  Scott's  to  be  believed, 
No  ghost  of  Adam's  daughter: 

Witches  aren't  ghosts,  or  ghosts  still  in  the  flesh, 
Altho'  they  ride  on  broomsticks  over  ditches ; 
And  this  being  thus,  the  point  that's  raised  afresh 
Is  to  know  which  is  witches  ? 


A  Sylphide's  what — 1  know  not — not  a  miss — 

Nor  fragile  Peri  from  a  rose-leaf  sipping, 
Mermaids  and  Naiads  wear  a  charming  dress 
But  run  too  much  to  dripping. 


/.' )      /    MATERIALIST. 


83 


Then  there's  the  Dry-ad,  just  by  way  of  chanj 

Brownie  and  Banshee,  Troll — but  he's  a  wood-fellow,- 
Fays,  Elves,  and  Sprites  who  toadstool  rings  arrang 
And  Puck  or  Robin  Goodfellow; — 

Kelpie  and  Kobold,  Wraith,  and  Spook,  and  Pix, 
Hobgoblin,  Imp,  and  things  of  smaller  matter, 
Not  worth  invoking — Bogie,  Gnome,  and  Nix, 
"  Hyperion  to  a  Satyr.''  .  .  . 

And  still  they  come!  they  come  before  I  call  — 

Indeed,  I'd  no  idea  so  vast  their  bulk  was. 
Adieu,  sweet  friends!  give  me,  if  ghosts  at  all 
Ghosts  solid — as  Fitzfulk  was. 


POSTSCRIPT   TO    GHOSTS. 


r  seems  that  after  all  there've  been  left  out 

Some  "  most  respectables,"  to  favor  brevity 
The  apparitions  mean  to  make  it  hot 
For  treating  them  with  levity. 


A  Siren  hints  I  must  have  lost  my  eyes, 

A  Harpy  kindly  lets  me  know  I'm  "wanted," 
A  Houri  threatens  me  with  Paradise, 
A  Hag  with  being  haunted. 

If  this  were  all  I  might  p'raps  "  chance  the  ducks" 

But  there's  a  Vampyre  making  frightful  faces  ; 
A  Ghoul  has  routed  all  my  guardian  Pucks 
And  offers  its  embraces.  .  .  . 

So  there, — now,  let's  make  peace! — But  when  all's  done 

These  kind  won't  "  act"  with  Edmund  Phelps  or  Fechter, 
At  least  your  genuine  Ghost  has  got  some  fun, 
The  real  Shakspearian  Spectre. 

x4 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  GHOSTS.  S5 

The  King  of  Denmark  was  a  gallant  soul 

Fresh  run  from  Styx, and  lively  as  a  samlet, 
(Twas  Hamlet's  uncle  murder'd  the  "old  mole," 
Ami  Fechter  murder'd  1 1. unlet.) 

But  still  the  shade  was  honester  than  most, 

And  what  he  owed  his  brother  came  and  paid  him. 
As  for  Macbeth — but  stay,  he's  not  a  ghost, 

Or  Irving  would  have  laid  him  !   .   .  . 

And  so  adieu,  sweet  friends — going,  going,  gone  I 

I  have  enshrined  you  in  a  splendid  ditty, 
And  won't  be  haunted  more  by  any  one — 
Unless  they're  young  and  pretty. 


A    REPLY    TO    BIRTHDAY    STANZAS. 

EAR  poet  of  the  playful  pen, 

Who  fling'st  thy  rhyme  in  airy  wreath 
And  graceful  cadence  of  sweet  breath 
Upon  the  graceless  sons  of  men  — 

Be  sure  the  fairy  flowers  you  twine, 

With  bud  and  bloom  and  scented  sweets, 
Warm  from  the  kindest  heart  that  beats, 

Will  shed  a  fragrance  over  mine. 

Not  often  is  life's  past  complete, 
And  seldom  can  tlr  auspicious  fete 
That  tells  him  he  is  thirty-eight 

To  man  be  altogether  sweet. 

But  tho'  my  sun  has  well-nigh  set, 
One  ray  across  the  gathering  night 
Has  cast  a  fair  and  lingering  light 

That  gilds  the  horizon  yet. 


86 


I.ahy  'Bell's  Ca  i  i  <  iii-m." 


LADY    'BELL'S    CATECHISM. 

I  [AT  arc  your  "  load-stars,"  sir? — "  My  Bella's  eyes:" 
And   what's    the    sweetest   of  "sweet  air?" — "Her 
sighs :" 

Where  does  the  "  bee  suck  ?" — "  From  her  honied  lip, 
(Wish  I'd  the  luck,  just  a  rewarding  sip  !") 
Who  "smiles  and  smiles,"  and  not  one  false? — "  My  sweet:" 
What  look  as  if  they  "  dreamt  a  valse  ?" — "  Her  feet :" 
What  is  her  arm? — A  "  wreath  as  moonlight  fair:" 
Her  hand,  "  so  white,  so  warm  ?" — "  A  sceptre  rare — 
(The  only  rule  to  which  I  bow,  my  pet!") 
Stuff!  pay  attention  now,  and  don't  forget : — 
Where  is  the  "  glass  of  fashion  ?" — "  In  her  eye  !"  .  .  . 
(You'll  put  me  in  a  passion  if  you  try! — ) 
What  is  the  "  mould  of  form,"  then  ? — "  Bella's  bonnet :" 
(Good  gracious !  Tom,  I  think  you're  sitting  on  it !)  .  .  . 
What  is  "  each  changeful  fancy's  sport?" — "  The  moon  :" 
It's  nothing  of  the  sort,  you  know — "  A  spoon  :" 
What's  "  changeless  yet;  tho'  all  should  turn  away"  .  .  . 
(Hullo  !  this  grass  is  getting  damp,  I  say — ) 
A  "  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy,"  what  is  it,  tell  ? — 
"  My  loved  and  loving  lovely  lady  Bell !" 

10  89 


MAYFAIR    ON    SKATES. 

{Recitative.     Allegro.) 

JO  you  think  the  ice  is  safe,  Mr.  Beard? — I'm  sure  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  stand — 
A  chair?  (he  wants  to  put   me  off  with  a  chair!) 
thank  you,  but  I  think  I  should  prefer  a  hand  .  .  . 
Oh,  please  don't  let  me  go !     I  shall  fall — I  know  I  shall — 

I  feel  I  must — O  dear !  .  .  . 
I  told  you  so  ! — and — oh,  Mr.  Beard,  I'm  so  ashamed,  I  really 
didn't  mean  to  pull  your  hair! 


Chorus. 

For  here  we  fall 

And  there  we  sprawl, — 
This  bumping  is  pernicious  ; 

Yet  Charley  swears 

And  Blanche  declares 
That  skating's  quite  delicious  ! 

Thank  you  so  much — I  hope  I've  not  tired  you  .  .  .  light,  am 

I  ?     I'm  sure  I  feel  like  lead ; 

(It's  very  kind  of  him  to  say  he's  not  a  bit  tired,  but  he  looks 

half  dead) — 
90 


MA  YFAIR   ON  SKATES. 


►1 


Getting  on  awfully  fast? — Yes,  dreadfully!  I   feel   I   couldn't 

stop  myself  to  save  my  life — 
And    here's    Lord    Dash   towing    Lady   I),  backwards    like   a 

lightning  conductor,  or  a  pilot  engine  with  a  wife, — 
He'll  be  over  us  in  half  a  minute! — can't  somebody  manage  to 

tch  me  ? — Ada,  elf!  .  .  . 
Was  there  ever!  .  .  .  hurt  myself  did  you  say,  sir?    No,  sir,  I 

did  not  hurt  myself/  .  .  . 
He'll    scatter  someone   else   directly — look,    I    told    you    so — 

there's  Constance  down  and  there  goes  Fanny  Flop, 
And    Katy,  and  Ada  with  her  "ice  wings,"  and  the  three  Mi>s 

Maypoles,  and  huge  Mrs.  MacAnak  at  the  top: 
Why  can't  the  man  look  where  he's  going  to,  or  skate  forwards 

like  other  people,  I  should  like  to  know? — 
He's  bowling  them  over  like  ninepins,  and,  oh  hurrah  !  I  declare 

he's  bowled  himself  over  at  last  into  a  great  heap  of  snow  ! 

Chorus. 

For  here  we  slip 

And  there  we  trip 
In  moments  too  ambitious 

Yet  Blanche  declares 

And  Charley  swears 
That  skating's  quite  delicious! 


92 


MA  YFAIR   ON  SKA  TES. 


The  Lancers  ?     What  on  skates  ?     Of  all  things  ! — wouldn't  it 

be  jolly? 
Richard  can   dance  with   me,  and    I'll    introduce    you   to  my 

country  cousin  Polly : 
Rather  have    me?     No,  would  you?     I    thought   you'd    like 

better  to  have  danced  with  her ; 
Only  Polly  always  goes  wrong  in  the  Grand  Chain  and  Dick 

systematically  refuses  to  stir.  .  .  . 
Can't  somebody  whistle? — They'll  never  get  on  like  this — but 

we'll  finish  it  in  spite  of  spites, — 
What's   stopping  us  now  ?     Oh  it's   the   girl  with   the  pretty 

feet  again  wanting  her  skate  straps  put  to  rights ; — 
And  pray  what  are  you  about,  sir  ?     New  Lancer  step  ?     Non- 
sense, it's  nothing  of  the  sort,  I  know, 
It's  spread-"  addle,"  or  "  eagle,"  or  something,  but  you've  fairly 

settled  the  "set,"  and  I  believe  that's  what  you  wanted  to 

do- 
So  we'll  go  and  cut  some  "  eights,"  shall  we  ?  or  "  threes  back  ?'; 

(Yes,  I  know  your  stupid  joke  about  my  "  backward  roll,") 
Or  make  a  voyage  of  discovery  to  the  furthest  ice,  like  Captain 

Cook  or  Franklin  when  they  got  to  the  top  of  North  Pole  ! 

Chorus. 

For  here  we  slide 
And  there  we  glide 


M.l  YFA1R   ON  SKA  11  S. 


1  ho1  Ma  may  look  suspicii 
A  fall  or  two 
1  >on't  matter  a  sou, 

And  skating  IS  delicious! 


V  J 


'<> 


THE    "MATRIMONIAL    NEWS." 


YEAR  ago  with  pockets  full 

My  steps  would  often  range, 
To  do  a  modest  "  bear"  or  "bull" 
From  Grub  Street  to  th'  Exchange ; 
Sometimes  my  glance  was  golden-hued — 
Sometimes  I'd  got  the  blues, — 
But  smile  or  frown 
Could  not  put  down 
The  "  Matrimonial  News." 


"  I  say,  sir  !   Marry  !  Want  a  wife  ?" 
"  The  Devil !"— "  Here  you  are  !- 
"  Just  only  buy  the  'News  and  try"- 


"  Be  off!"—"  a  penny!!"  .  .  .  "bah!!!' 


And  now,  you  know,  I'm  really  wed,- 
Perhaps  I  took  the  hint  ? — 

At  all  events  I'm  fairly  rid 
Of  that  obnoxious  print ; 


•>4 


THE  "MATRIMONIAL   NEWS" 

For  since  the  hour  I  said  "  I  will," 
All  note  the  brats  refuse, 

No  youthful  tout  now  spreads  me  out 
The  "  Matrimonial  News." 

It  can't  be  in  my  cut  of  coats, — 

I'm  not  increasing  fat, — 
I  still  wear  Hoby-Humby's  boots 

And  Lincoln-Bennett's  hat, 
And  thro'  a  single  eye-glass  squint 
The  most  benignant  views  ; — 
Hut  frown  or  smile 
I  can't  beguile 
The  "  Matrimonial  News  ! 


' 


t%&$$X 


PINCHER. 


AREWELL — sleep  soft !  whilst  over  mosses  grow, 
Kindest  of  all  thy  race  was  ever  seen; 
Some  tears  are  thine,  some  drops  of  long  adieu 
From  hearts  where  still  thy  memory  shall  be  green. 

II. 
Farewell ! — but  oh  !  how  often  did'st  thou  lay 

A  soft  head  and  brown  eyes  upon  my  breast, 
Nestling  and  sighing  deep,  as  if  to  say 

"  I  love,  I  love  you — master  think  the  rest !" 

III. 
Companion  both  and  terror  of  my  gun, 

Who  all  inapt,  yet  ardent  for  the  chase, 
Plunged  in  the  crackling  marsh  when  snipe  was  down 

Spurr'd  by  ambitions  alien  to  thy  race ; 

IV. 

Or  else,  when  bluebells  rang  thro'  woods  of  May 

Girt  by  the  winding  stream  where  alders  nod, 

How  would'st  thou  drive  th'  amphibious  foe  to  bay 

Dripping  and  panting  like  some  river  god.  .  .  . 
96 


PINCHER. 


Farewell!  farewell!  and  yet  one  last  caress, 
Old  comrade,  friend,  for  truer  ne'er  can  be  ; 

Whose  faults  were  only  virtues  in  excess, 
Whose  virtues  faultless — there's  a  star  for  thee! 


1 1 


NEXT    MORNING. 

F  some  one's  head's  not  very  bright 
At  least  the  owner  bears  no  malice  . 
Who  was  it  pulled  my  nose  last  night, 
And  begged  an  interview  at  Calais  ? 

The  quarrel  was  not  much,  I  think, 
For  such  a  deadly  arbitration, — 

Some  joke  about  the  "  missing  link" 
And  all  the  rest  inebriation. 

In  vino  Veritas  I  which  means 

A  man's  a  very  ass  in  liquor; 
The  "  thief  that  slowly  steals  our  brains" 

Makes  nothing  but  the  temper  quicker. 


98 


Next  morning  brings  a  train  of  woes, 
But  finds  the  passions  much  sedater— 

Who  was  it,  now,  that  pulled  my  nose?- 
I'd  better  go  and  ask  the  waiter. 


DAISY'S    DIGIT. 

FINGER  with  the  circlet  slight, 
That  keeps  it  warm  and  cosy, 
Wee  winsome  third  left-handed  doight 

So  white  and  warm  and  rosy, — 
More  taper  dibits  there  may  be, 

More  lips  may  kiss  and  cling  on, 
This  tiny  finger's  best  to  me — 

The  one  I  put  the  ring  on. 

Some  fingers  may  perhaps  proclaim 

A  precedence  of  status, 
To  point  the  shaft  of  praise  or  blame 

( )r  scorn  at  those  that  hate  us  : 
Lay  down  the  law,  you  counsel  small  ! — 

Your  barbed  arrows  string  on  ! 
To  me  this  finger's  best  of  all — 

The  one  I  put  the  ring  on. 

My  finger  has  not  worked  a  bit 

In  calligraphics  dainty, 
The  busy  thimble  dares  not  fit 

The  type  of  Suzerainty, — 


>> 


IOO 


DAISYS  DIGIT. 


Such  weapons  of  bewild'ring  art 
I  have  no  wit  to  sing  on, 

This  fairy  finger  holds  my  heart— 
The  one  I  put  the  ring  on. 


LONDON'S    "SUEZ    CANAL." 

1  [AT  pretty  girls  one  sees  about! 
At  rink  and  race,  at  ball  and  rout, 

At  drums  and  dinners, - 
In  books,  where  /Enids  find  Geraints, 
In  pictures  Mr.  Millais  paints, 
In  church — I'm  fond  of  such  young  saints 
and  sinners. 

A  score  at  least  one's  sure  to  meet 
From  Charing  Cross  to  Oxford  Street, 

Or  climbing  hilly 
St.  James's,  where  of  clubdom  sick, 
Old  fogeys  voted  at  old  Nick 
Fond  glances  turn  at  4  towards  Pic- 

-cadilly. 

Muse  favored  haunt  of  all  that's  gay  ! 
Whose  every  stone  has  had  its  day 

Of  loves  and  graces ! 
Your  triumphs  many  a  bard  can  tell, 
Fred  Locker  sings  them  passing  well, 
I  know  you  bear  away  the  bell 

for  faces. 


101 


IG2  LONDON'S  "SUEZ   CANAL." 

Along  your  Strand  converging  flow 
The  social  tides  to  Rotten  Row, 

Beloved  and  shady ; 
Old  Gouty  trundles  with  his  "  pair," 
De  Boodle  saunters,  cane  in  air — 
And  wonders  who's  that  golden  hair- 

'd  young  lady?  .  .  . 

But  whether  gold  or  black  or  gray- 
Fashion  decrees  her  slaves  shall  say 

The  dernier  gout  is, 
You  bear  your  motley  freightage  well, 
And  East  and  West  your  convoys  swell,- 
A  sort  of  cockneyfied  canal 

of  Suez ! 


A  neutral  "  cut,"  where  every  man's 
A  vessel  bound  to  pay  the  trans- 

-it  dues  and  duty, — 
Dues  stricter  than  e'er  Lesseps  took, 
Love's  tribute  levied  on  a  look — 
And  duly  noted  in  the  book 

of  Beauty. 


/.o.YDON'S  "SI  1  /.    CANAL. 

And  now,  whilst  ice  enwraps  you  still 
And  snow's  on  Constitution  Hill — 

Like  some  old  Pharaoh, 
Sun-shaded  mid  the  fervent  rays, 

I  bask  away  the  balmy  days 
And  write  these  verses  to  your  praise 
in  Cairo. 

Across  the  desert  ridges  high 
Long  lines  of  camels  track  the  sky, 

The  pink  lights  flicker, — 
The  day  has  done  his  golden  race — 
The  Mussulman  kneels  in  his  place, 
The  pilgrim  turns  his  patient  face 

to  Mecca.   .  .  . 

All  here's  aglow  with  summer  sun — 
Tkerehugs  black  frost  his  mantle  dun 

In  winter  chilly  : 
Yet  could  I  stand  on  Simla's  desk 
And  westward — ere  this  watch's  tick 
( )ld  England  ho!  for  me,  and  Pic- 

-cadilly  ! 


A    POCKET    VENUS." 

ABEL  isn't  quite  fifteen, 
She's  just  like  some  dolls  I've  seen — 
Could  they  mischief  mean  us  ; 
Two  red  lips  my  doll  has  got, 
Eyes  like  blue  forget-me-not, 
Flaxen  ringlets — such  a  lot ! — 

May's  my  pocket  Venus. 

May  has  got  a  figure  fine 

Tho'  she  says  her  boots  are  "  nine  /" — 

That's  a  joke  between  us, — 
She's  a  foot  outruns  the  breeze, 
Killing  ankles  if  you  please, 
You  should  see  her  climbing  trees  ! 

May,  my  pocket  Venus. 

In  abbreviated  frock 

That  would  Mrs.  Grundy  shock, 

Had  she  only  seen  us, — 
Tripping,  dancing  like  a  fay, 
Playing  hide  and  seek — some  day 
I  should  like  to  hide  away 
Altogether  charming  May 

As  my  pocket  Venus  ! 


104 


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'■  A    POCKE1    \'i 


THE   COMING    R  VCE. 

OOK  back,  look  back  !  a  hundred  years — 
The  retrospect  is  funny; 
Men-kind,  the  puppets  of  an  hour, 
Monopolizing  place  and  pow'r, 
And  spending  all  the  money. 

Now  ladies  of  creation  sit 

Like  gods  of  ancient  story, 
Arranging  all  sub-lunar  things, 
With  lady-popes  and  lady-kings, 

And  lady-judge  and  jury. 

One  privilege  to  man  is  left — 

The  privilege  of  earning 
The  dross  that  pays  the  weekly  bills — 
All  hints  beside  of  former  ills 

We  pride  ourselves  on  spurnin< 


^- 


The  chain  that  once  we  used  to  hug 

We  now  agree  to  hate ; 
No  skirts  our  tameless  ankles  vex, 
No  ringlets  stigmatize  the  sex, 

Nor  bonnets — pas  si  bete  ! 

12  I07 


io8  THE   COMING  RACE. 

A  slightly  classic  style  of  dress, 

Is  quite  preferred,  you  know, 
Not  absolutely  statuesque, 
But  like  the  heroes  of  burlesque, 
A  century  ago. 


Blacks,  grays,  and  drabs  are  out  of  date, 

We  fancy  livelier  hues  ; 
The  modest  crimson  silk  looks  neat, 
Or  sky-blue  velvet  tout  en  suite, 

With  pearl-bespangled  shoes. 


The  men  would  fain  affect  our  style 

As  far  as  they  were  able ; 
Of  course  that  could  not  be  endured, 
Their  peacock-ships  we  quickly  cured, 
And  toned  them  down  to  sable  ! 


Our  parliament  decreed  besides, 

What  seemed  a  little  harsh — 
On  pain  of  death  no  male  should  wear 
A  quizzing-glass  or  short-cropped  hair, 
Beard,  whiskers,  or  moustache. 


THE    COMING    K.\<  I 

Malt,  Imps,  to  brew  they  were  forbid, 

Nor  pipes  allowed  to  carry  ; 
Cigars  and  brandy  lead  to  debts, 
And  everything  but  cigarettes 

And  claret,  to  old  1  [any. 

At  first  they  tried  the  fixed  balloons, 

And  smoked  upon  the  quiet; 
But  when  we  cut  the  ropes  adrift, 
And  left  the  aeronauts  to  shift 
They  almost  raised  a  riot. 


And  what  a  howl  the  creatures  made. 

As  if  they'd  all  got  rabies, 
When  mothers  ruled  it  was  the  chic 
That  fathers  should  in  future  stick 

At  home  and  mind  the  bahi 


It's  not  to  be  supposed  that  we 

Could  drudge  in  toil  domestic 
When  daily  we  attend  debate — 
Law,  Physic,  ami  the  Pulpit  wait 
Our  presences  majestic.   .  .  . 


no 


THE    COMING  RACE. 


And  that  reminds  me  to  indite 
My  "  pastoral"  on  Hades  .  . 

Does  it  exist  ?  Where  can  it  be  ? 

Not  where  the  state  is  truly  free.- 
N.B.  That  is  for  ladies. 


TWO    LETTERS. 


BRACE  of  letters— one  by  far 

Too  black,  and  one  with  silver  label  ; 
I'll  toss  for  which  shall  have  the  pas — 
Black  wins!  conic  then  my  friend  in  sable.   . 
*  *  *  * 

Run  down  at  last  ?     Ten  years  ago 

He  plucked  with  me  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
Was  "  pluckt"  for  the  same  "  little  go" 
And  rowed  in  the  same  eight  at  College. 


Poor  Charley  !  once  so  frank  and  fn 

But  duns  and  doctors  did  their  killing  ; 

I  think  I  heard  he  could  not  pay 
At  last  even  the  proverbial  shilling. 


The  pauper's  pound  :  now  Death  squares  all, 
From  debt  or  duns  no  more  gainsayment, — 

I  lent  him  fifty,  and  must  call 

To-day  at  Woking  for  repayment! 
*  *  *  * 

1 1 1 


j  I2  TWO  LETTERS. 

Let's  hope  there's  something  livelier  here — 
These  silver  trimmings  hint  a  wedding, 

I  almost  fancy  I  could  swear 

An  orange-blossom  odor's  spreading.  .  .  . 

What  Blanche  mignonne  !  my  fairy  friend  ! 

And  who  may  be  the  lucky  fellow  ? 
Next  week  your  pretty  pranks  must  end  ? — 

Some  score  will  have  to  wear  the  willow. 

I  wonder  if  you  mean  to  bid 

Each  former  victim  of  your  graces 

To  see  their  fickle  tyrant  wed  ? 
If  so  they'll  want  a  lot  of  places. 

There  was  a  time  I  might  have  been 
Averse  to  render  such  assistance, — 

But  you've  forgot  our  tiff  since  then, 
And  I'd  forgotten  your  existence! 


VENL  vim.  vici. 


N  unfledged  heiress  in  her  'teens, 

And  worth  a  "  plum"  they  say  ; 
With  charms  to  move  an  anchorite — 
The  Duke  made  running  at  first  sight, 

But  didn't  seem  to  "  stay" — 
/  mean  to-night  to  wire  in. 
No  "  waiting"  business — run  to  win — 

You  know  my  slashing  way, 

The  veni,  vidi,  vici  style, 

Short,  sharp,  decisive,  eh  ?  .  .  . 


*  *  * 

*  *  * 

It's  all  U.  P.,  old  boy, — I'm  done  ! 

Could  laugh  if  'tweren't  for  spite  ; — 
"  Unfledged,"  indeed  ! — an  old  coquette  ! 
She'll  teach  them  all  confer  fleuretfest 

And  confer  scalps,  the  kite  ! 

She's  up  to  every  move  that's  out, 

Knows  when  to  sigh  and  smile  and  pout 

And  "  plays"  you  as  you'd  play  a  trout — 

The  more  fool  I  to  bite! 

1 1 


!  ,  4  VENI,    VIDI,    VI  CI. 

At  first  she  seemed  to  like  the  pace 

And  answered  to  the  bit, 
Blushed  when  I  praised  her  twinkling  feet, 
Whilst  her  two  eyes  grew  dark  and  sweet — 

Green  eyes  with  mischief  lit, — 
"  I'm  like  a  grape  from  the  rich  South, 
(They  said)  to  drop  into  your  mouth — 

Why  don't  you  open  it  ?"  .  .  . 
Ah,  les  yeux  verts,  les  yeux  d'enfer  ! — 

The  artful  doll-faced  chit ! 

I  clasped  her  jewelled  hand  in  mine 
And  through  the  gallop  flew, 

Her  yielding  waist  my  arm  compressed, 

Her  whispered  words  almost  caressed, — 
"  Please  hold  me  tighter,  so" —  .  .  . 

Then  led  her  drooping  to  a  seat 

(Here  the  scene  changed,  you  know). 

I  whispered  "  hearts  are  more  than  gold  !" 

(Now  for  a  lucky  fluke  !) 
She  said  "  so  I've  been  often  told," 
"  Then  hear  me  swear  to  all  I  hold" — 

She  smiled—"  I  think  I  won't !" 
(One  effort  more  to  wire  in) 
"  You  do  not  care  for  me  a  pin !" 

She  laughed — "  of  course  I  don't !" 


17:.\7,     VID1,     /  /<  I. 


I  I 


Then  gently  yawning — "There's  mama 

Is  looking  for  me — thanks — ta-ta  !" — 
And  left  me  speechless,  plante  la, — 

-  I'.S.i  The  minx  has  hooked  the  Duke. 


-■  V 


A    FABLE   WITH    A    MORAL. 

WAKEN  snakes  !"  a  herald  cried, 

"  Attend  to  what  I  say  ; 
The  bearer  of  a  mandate,  sent 
To  call  a  general  parliament — 
Oyez  !  oyez  ! !  oyez  ! ! ! 

"  A  congress  of  all  rattlesnakes 

Whom  indignation  pales, 
That  we  alone  of  serpent  kind 
An  instrument  of  torture  find 

Appended  to  our  tails. 

"  An  instrument  that  signal  gives 

To  every  snake-molester ; 
That  warns  mankind  to  clear  the  course 
And  often  wakens  up  per  force 

Ourselves  from  our  siesta. 

"  It  makes  us  all  look  white  and  wan 
Thus  robbed  of  peaceful  slumber ; 

It's  neither  useful  that  we  find, 

Nor  ornamental,  to  our  mind, 
And  serves  but  to  encumber. 


116 


./    FABLE   WITH  A   MORAL.  \  \-j 

"  Wherefore  ...  a  Parliament  is  fixed 

By  croctalistic  usance, 
To  legislate  upon  the  point 
I  [ow  to  curtail  this  caudal  joint 

And  remedy  the  nuisance." 

*  *  *  * 

The  day  was  set,  the  serpents  met 

Prepared  for  wordy  battle  ; 
They  met — alas  !  no  single  word 
By  clerk  or  congress  could  be  heard 

But  one  stupendous  rattle ! 


TWENTY-ONE   TO-MORROW. 

OU  are  young;  I'm  getting  old, 

Cara  Mia ! 
In  the  glass  when  I  behold 
Touched  locks  in  contrasted  fold, 
Mine  are  gray,  and  yours  are  gold, 

Cara  Mia. 

Twenty — forty  !  that's  the  score, 

Cara  Mia. 

One  to  two,  a  trifle  o'er — 

Why  weren't  you  a  decade  more  ? 

Why  am  I  not  twenty-four, 

Cara  Mia? 

Twice  your  age !  no  time  to  say, 

"Cara  Mia;" 

Doubled  years  make  short  delay.  .  .  . 

Happy  thought !  after  to-day 

Can't  again  be  double,  eh, 

Cara  Mia? 
ii8 


A    [APANESE    PUZZLE 


ITTLE  So-sli  has  an  almond  eye 

And  a  foot  that's  fit  for  the  graces, 
She's  pearls  in  her  lips,  and  her  finger-tips 
Determined  by  golden  cases. 


Her  cousin,  you  know,  is  little  So-slo, 
{So  fast  more  correct — less  idyllic) 

Her  mouth's  a  red  rose,  and  as  for  her  nose 
It's  celestial  and  therefore  angelic. 


The  worst  of  it  is — for  So-sli's  a  quiz, 

And  So-slo  would  plague  her  own  brother 

When  for  mischief  inclined — I  can't  make  up  my  mind 
If  it's  this  one  I  like  or  the  other. 


i') 


120 


A    JAPANESE  PUZZLE. 


You  can  choose  with  more  ease,  from  the  cut,  if  you  please, 
Tho'  you'll  hardly  get  love  for  your  labors, 

But  if  all  Japanese  are  as  pretty  as  these 
It's  provoking  we  aren't  nearer  neighbors  ? 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


ttECD  10-URC 

MAY  3 1 1986 


RECD  UMI* 

NOV  1919^6 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


Pennell — 


5167  ^e.^bisus  re-saddledl 
P33p 


PR 

5167 

P33p 


KSoONAL  


AA    000  371007 


•■'  :mm%m^^mm%Mmm; 


